by Roy Lewis
‘I know.’
A silence settled between them. His eyes held hers, and he was aware of their softness. With a slight surge of embarrassment he realised that their sympathy was for him. Even as the awareness came to him, her precision was back.
‘You’ll be in and available, then, Mr Marlin. Er . . . just one thing. May I leave a little earlier today? You see, I—’
‘Be my guest,’ smiled Peter. ‘Do you know, Joan, you’ve been working for me for what, five years? And till now you’ve never asked to leave early. Not once. Explanations aren’t necessary. After all, there can’t be many more attractive women in town.’
She had half turned away from him, and he suddenly meant the words, more than he’d imagined, as he was aware of the neatness of her figure. Joan Shaw was not tall, nor was she a striking beauty, but her red hair framed an oval face that was well proportioned; her eyes were friendly, her smile warm. Her figure was unflamboyant, but one a male could appreciate. With a positive appreciation.
‘Thank you, Mr Marlin.’
For what? He was confused as the door closed behind her. Thanks for the thoughts?
Had they been spoken or had they stayed in his head? What was in his head? He had looked at Joan differently, just now. As a woman? When had he last thought of a woman’s body?
Jeannette. Jeannette’s body. But it had been without life. It had been there at his feet and the warmth and the life and the loveliness had left it, as it lay sprawled unfashionably on the floor. Unfashionably. How Jeannette would have hated that word. How she would have hated the sight of her own lovely face, twisted, a tongue swollen and bitten between bloodied teeth.
She would not have wanted any man, not even Peter, to see her like that.
Desperately, Peter turned to his desk and his papers. But concentration evaded him. The papers lay there, solid and positive in the problems they raised. Matrimonial Homes Act 1967. It would be of assistance in the Davies case.
‘. . . Where one spouse is entitled by virtue of section 2 above to a charge on an estate or interest in a dwelling house and the charge is registered in accordance with subsection (6) or (7) of that section, it shall be a term of any contract . . .’ The words were incomprehensible, they were cloaked by the dark image of a woman’s ungainly shape, sprawled in death on a rumpled carpet.
It was an image that was put to flight only by the insistent intercom.
‘Mr Marlin, Mr Stephen would like you to come up to his office as soon as it is convenient.’
It was convenient.
* * *
‘Come in, my boy!’
Stephen Sainsby’s office was the largest on the first floor. Its window overlooked the High Street and the muted sound of traffic drifted through the double glazing like the drone of summer bees. The room was wide, the desk was central, the cupboard containing the whisky and the sherry and the gin lurked in mahogany splendour in the far corner and Stephen Sainsby was facing it, his back towards Peter. He was taking out some glasses.
Peter raised his eyebrows to John Sainsby, who stood with one nervous hand on his uncle’s desk. John knew as well as Peter that the drinks rarely came out for the partners; the occasional influential client was offered something, the partners only when something important was in the wind.
John Sainsby made no facial reply to Peter’s quizzical eyebrows. He looked away. ‘Whisky, my boy?’
‘I think that would be rather pleasant,’ replied Peter carefully and walked towards the desk.
Over his shoulder Stephen Sainsby said, ‘Take a seat, Peter, take a seat.’
Peter did as he was told.
He observed Stephen Sainsby as the senior partner poured the drinks. The man was fifty-eight now, but presented an upright, handsome figure, and his waist was trim. He went to a good tailor, as the cut of his grey suit showed; his hairdresser charged the highest prices in town, and Stephen’s white hair gave him a distinguished appearance, swept back carefully, trimmed neatly at the nape of the neck, the merest hint of sideburns. His lean, ascetic face was profiled to Peter and lined with concentration as he poured the drink, gold in the faceted glass. Stephen Sainsby did everything with concentration and, he had often insisted to Peter and John, it always paid dividends. He was turning now, proffering the glass to Peter, an inch of white shirt-cuff displayed, long, lean, hard fingers holding the glass lightly.
‘A dash of soda?’ Peter agreed.
‘I’ll have the same, Uncle.’
‘I thought you would do so.’
John sat down, across from Peter. Stephen Sainsby elegantly perched himself on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging in smartly creased grey flannel.
He raised his glass and his smile showed the slightly age-stained teeth of his lower jaw, contrasting with the bleached dentures above.
‘Peter, John — your health,’ he said softly — ‘and the health of the firm.’
The whisky was warm in Peter’s throat.
He was suddenly aware that he had needed it, needed it all morning. He took a second sip, more slowly. Stephen Sainsby was not looking at him, but at the glass which he had placed on the desk.
‘Do you know I’ve been in this firm all my life, Peter? That’s silly, of course you do. You know its history as well as I. You know how I came in at sixteen, took articles and qualified, saw the others die . . . and then there was John, and there was you.’
He paused ruminatively.
‘Just forty years . . . You know, Peter, it’s a strange thing. I’ve seen this firm as a living entity and I’ve seen it grow from a solid, respected business into an efficient modern one — and I’ve seen where the credit for that lay.’
Peter could not suppress the glance of surprise in John’s direction. John’s head was bent, staring into his glass. There they both were, uncle and nephew, gazing in rapt concentration at puddles of whisky in cut glass tumblers.
‘It’s lain with you two youngsters. You two boys came into this firm, John as a partner, you as an assistant and then later as a partner, and by dint of your efforts — and I admit here that I was of little assistance to you, but then, old dogs abhor new tricks — you dragged this firm out into the harsh sunlight of modern business techniques . . .’
It was unlike Stephen Sainsby. Peter wondered vaguely if he was rehearsing political speeches and phraseology, but a warning ticked through his brain.
‘. . . and we saw the results in the rising profit margins, the increased business from commerce in the area, the new respect that appeared in the industrial community. True, the kind of business that we were transacting was changing in its character, the old family firm of former days was disappearing as such, but who could argue against such progress? I watched, and I wondered, and in the end, for all my opposition, and the difficulties I raised, I knew. I knew that you and John, you both had the interests of the firm at heart, you wanted what was best for the firm, you had, in a word, come to look upon the firm as I had always looked upon it. As an entity. As something alive, and worth preserving.’
Stephen raised his glass and took a slow drink. He turned his head, and his eyes were benign as they looked into Peter’s. But his mouth was brutal.
‘And if you stay with the firm, Peter, you’ll kill it!’
Peter’s skin was cold. John’s head had jerked, as though away from a knife, but he had not looked up. He had known what was coming; it was just the method of presentation that had surprised him.
‘What the hell are you talking about, Stephen?’
Peter’s tone was calm and even. This surprised him. Nothing surprised Stephen Sainsby.
‘It is really quite clear, Peter. The way you and John — have worked in this firm makes it clear to me that you have a great respect for its traditions. You have regarded it in the same light as I. You may not realise, Peter, that I was fully aware of the time you put into the business, of the long evenings at your desk. You may not realise that—’
‘Stop wrapping it up in cotton-wool,�
�� cut in Peter. ‘Get to the point.’
Stephen’s tone remained smooth.
‘The point is quite clear. I know the regard you must have for the firm. I know that you will now see that your continued existence as a partner within the firm can only do it harm, and this, I am sure, you would want to avoid.’
‘I don’t understand. Why should my presence in the partnership damage the firm?’
‘Need I spell it out?’ queried Stephen softly, his eyes narrowing slightly. Peter knew what the reasons would be but wanted to hear them, in the open. Of late, too much had been left unsaid, too much had been hidden and secret.
‘Spell it out!’
Stephen shrugged carefully, and stood up to half turn from Peter. His elegant fingers were laced together.
‘It can do the firm no good,’ he remarked quietly, ‘to have as a partner the husband of a woman who was recently murdered by an unknown assailant.’
The silence was expectant, but Peter sat doggedly, waiting. With a sigh of impatience, Stephen continued.
‘Particularly when it is common local gossip that the man in question was interrogated by the police concerning his whereabouts at the time of the murder.’
‘Uncle—’
Stephen Sainsby raised his hand and John subsided unhappily.
‘And even more so when it comes out into the open that the same man had been conducting an illicit affair with a . . . woman living in this town. You did ask me to spell it out. Those are the reasons. The continued presence of such a man in such a situation can do nothing other than damage to the firm. As far as I am concerned, therefore, my boy, I am faced with the painful task of asking you to withdraw from the firm. The partnership must be dissolved.’
‘You can’t do it, not just like that.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Peter. I know you to be a better lawyer than that. Your remark was an emotional, irrational one. Need I quote chapter and verse to you? Our partnership deed is open to dissolution on a number of grounds — not least of which is by one of us giving notice to the others. There is another — where a partner has ‘been guilty of conduct calculated to prejudicially affect the carrying on of the business.’ Does not the glove fit? Has not your conduct been so prejudicial?’
Peter felt anger rising within him, but he curbed it, dragging his eyes away from Stephen’s sneering mouth to John.
‘What about you — where do you stand in this?’
John’s narrow head jerked up. He did not look at Peter but at Stephen. There was defiance in his eyes.
‘I damned well don’t agree—’
‘In principle,’ complemented Stephen smoothly, ‘but John was never one to stand by his principles. I had hoped that this could be settled amicably and quietly—’
‘If you want me out of the partnership on that ground,’ began Peter and then irritatingly finished his drink as the others waited — ‘you’ll have to do it in court.’
Stephen Sainsby sneered impatiently.
‘We can dissolve this partnership by notice—’
‘Which will have to run its course,’ added Peter quietly.
‘You mean you’ll hang on to the bitter end,’ Stephen snarled.
Peter stood up.
‘Why should I hurry to bow out? We have agreements to resolve. There’s the question of my share of the partnership. Have you worked out what it’s worth, Stephen? And the notice — better check the agreement, Stephen: it must be in writing, and duly served, you know!’
‘You’re making things blasted difficult, Marlin!’ Stephen said, coming forward on stiff legs, angry as a bantam.
Peter’s own anger, till now controlled, flashed through.
‘Difficult for whom? For you, surely! For the firm perhaps, for a little while, though you and I and John all know that this will blow over and be forgotten like any nine days’ wonder. But basically and essentially for you, Stephen, you and your stupid political ambitions! Has Sir Peter Leonard been breathing down your neck? Has the Lord Lieutenant of the County been on the phone of late? Has Lady Fortescue not invited you to her daughter’s coming out? For God’s sake don’t mouth sanctimonious platitudes about the firm to me, Stephen — tell the truth for once!’
‘The truth,’ hissed Stephen Sainsby, ‘is that written notice dissolving the partnership will be on your desk by five o’clock this afternoon.’
When he had left the room Peter regretted the rude gesture he had then made to the old man: it had brought a contemptuous and supercilious twist to Stephen Sainsby’s face. It had made the man feel that he had won.
As, of course, he must do.
And Peter’s room was now different. For it was not his room. Maybe it had cocooned him in those days and nights, but it had been the firm’s premises all the time. The fact that he had been part of the firm was of no consequence, for the order was changing. Within a month once the financial details were settled he would be out. Martin, Sainsby and Sons would no longer hold open doors to him.
He needed another drink. Joan looked up at him as he walked quickly out. She opened her mouth to say something but no sound came. Perhaps she half guessed what was wrong, from the sight of his face. If she didn’t, she would soon know. Stephen wouldn’t type the notice himself.
He had reached the steps to the street when he heard his name called. It was John, hurrying down the stairs behind him.
Stephen Sainsby’s nephew stood looking at him unhappily.
‘I’m sorry about that, Peter. But . . . there’s not a thing I can do.’
For a moment Peter almost burst out with an angry retort but depression suddenly washed over him.
‘No,’ he agreed shortly. ‘There was nothing you could do.’
It was, after all, the Sainsby family firm.
‘Not that it makes much difference anyway,’ mumbled John unhappily, ‘not in the long run. The firm will die with Stephen.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m thinking of leaving too. Stephen doesn’t know yet, but I’m thinking of going.’
‘Going? Where? Why?’
John shrugged. He turned his lean face to the sunlit street.
‘I’m thinking of going to the Bar. It will — it will suit my talents more than—’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’
John shook his head, unhappily. ‘You — you don’t understand. I — well I don’t know, things aren’t going as they should, and—’
John turned suddenly and went back through the glass doors. Peter shouted after him.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’
Betty’s eyes would be round with bespectacled disbelief.
Peter drove home carefully.
* * *
The square-built, green-tiled house stared stonily at him as he swung the car into the drive. The tall bushes that lined the path made no sound to him as he walked past: there was no breeze to rustle through their thick, overgrown branches.
And inside the house it was silent too, soft-carpeted and hushed. There had been a period, after Jeanette had died, when he had though that peace would never return to the house. There was the coming and going of police photographers, the fingerprint experts, the constables and the inspectors, two of them. There were the local reporters. There were the morbid sightseers who gawped from the driveway, and the bolder, more inquisitive ghouls who came up to the house to peer in at the windows and gabble at the panes. It had been a wearing time, a difficult time, particularly since his nerves had been frayed by the insistent questioning as to his whereabouts, his relationship with his wife, her address when she had left him, her character (as if he really knew her friends), her enemies, her acquaintances — and his.
It was fortunate that Joan Shaw had been able to verify the statement that he had made to the police, to the effect that he had been working at the office at the very time that Jeannette had died. And it was a thirty-five-minute drive from the office to the house — Jeannette had wanted a house away from the town, in the
‘more respectable areas, darling, more in keeping with your undoubted status in the community . . .’
Peter closed the door behind him. The kitchen door faced him and he hesitated. He should have something to eat: his lunch had been non-existent, with the morning inquest unsettling him. But right now he needed a drink.
He turned into the sitting-room, and walked across to the cocktail cabinet. It was a piece of tasteless affectation that Jeannette had chosen for the offence it would give to Peter. There was also the ridiculous little chiming clock, all gilt and cheap, tawdry imitation. It was of such unimportant stuff that quarrels were made. With a liberal hand Peter poured himself a whisky. It was the best, equal to Stephen Sainsby’s. Jeannette would have seen to that. Peter took a stiff gulp from the glass, then sat down with his back to the French windows that overlooked the long narrow lawn at the back of the house, flanked by the enormous rose-bed that Jeannette had planted, then paid a gardener to keep in trim. Last summer the roses had bloomed in magnificence; recent rain had dulled them this year and since Jeannette’s death the gardener had not come and the weeds had thickened around the soggy base of the rose-trees.
Since Jeannette’s death . . . It was perhaps not strange that he should now measure everything by that event. It was hardly surprising that he should think of her as she was before he saw the trickle of blood from her bitten tongue, think of what she said, what she did, what she was, before he had entered this room and switched on the light and had seen the blue of her dress and the green of the carpet and the darkness of her face, blonde hair swirling crazily across her eyes, one leg twisted under her, a fist clenched in agony—
‘The lights were not on?’ they had queried.
‘The doors, the windows were unforced?’
What the hell did he know about it? What the hell did they expect him to know? He got himself another drink and started back to his chair; halfway there he changed his mind, went back for the bottle, then slumped down to the settee with glass and bottle. Some of the whisky spilled on his jacket as he poured out another drink. He put the bottle on the carpet and tilted the glass to his lips. The sky was cloudy. It had been a clear night when Jeannette had died.